


Hang on to yourself - Chapter 9

by basaltgrrl, debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns





	Hang on to yourself - Chapter 9

"Why Strangeways?"

Gene had wondered about the name when he was but a lad, too young and too well-behaved to fear being sent there. The word seemed frightening in a way that most place names didn't, even aside from the fact that he knew it was a prison. Ways that were strange. It made him think of monsters, or ghost stories and evil creatures. He had been ten and his mum knew everything (or so he thought) and the story she told about the Anglo-Saxons and the root of the word had stuck in his head when so many other facts hadn't. Place with a strong current. Most of the waterways he was familiar with were stagnant--the slow moving canals, the scummy ponds where he and his mates floated sticks and tossed stones. It was hard to imagine water that could carry a person away. 

Place with a strong current. A current of fear? Current of hopelessness? Gene could imagine it now, staring up at the red brick towers, stunned as always by the castle-like fortifications. The Cortina sat ticking gently as it cooled, and Gene sat in it, suddenly afraid--no, wary. It was one thing to set off in the mad heat of anger, but another to be sitting here a short but significant time later, knowing that he'd have to speak to people, to appear rational before they'd let him see Reynolds. So easy to be carried away by rage.  
He took a long swig from a hip flask. Nearly empty, the metallic slosh of liquid, and he sucked the last drops down before capping it, bracing both hands on the steering wheel for a moment, and then levering himself out of the car. He was too old to be scared of a building. He'd put people here; it held no surprises for him. He touched the heavy weight in his pocket, reassuring himself, and then marched up the broad front steps to the door.

A short walk down an echoing hallway. Two brief interviews, simply rote repetition. And then Gene stood in front of Reynolds' private room in the medical wing, a guard turning a key in the lock for him.

"Knock when you want out. I'll be here," the man said, already fishing a fag from his front pocket.

Gene nodded, mouth dry. The door opened with a click, closed behind him with the same note of finality, and the lock snapped shut.

He stood, suddenly all half-arsed and muddle-headed, feeling his heart pounding with a deep bass note as he stared at the limp figure in the bed. Carl was greyer than he had been, shrunken into himself and colorless under the hospital sheets--but then he rolled his head to the side, a slow, lazy movement like a cat--a big one, something so big it had no need for stealth or guile, only the sheer, unadulterated expression of power. Fucking laid out in a hospital bed, in a fucking prison, and he still was in charge. It made the red blood surge up into Gene's eyes, made his vision blur. The pistol was a lead weight in his pocket and his hands were trembling and he scarcely trusted his legs to hold him up. 

"You're not--" he said, and stopped.

Carl raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused, a hint of a smile playing around his thin lips. "You've got the advantage of me," he murmured at last. "Williams wins. Or--wait, it's Hunt, isn't it? Hunt comes out on top. I was so close to killing you there, at the end. And now..."

"You're the one that's dead," Gene grated.

"If you like. They say the damage to my spine might be permanent. A kind of living death, perhaps."

"S'not what I meant."

"You're going to kill me? Get on with it, then, lad. Can't move my legs, can't piss without help. You think I want to go on like this?" 

Gene took a step forward, snorting like a bull.

"End your career, right enough. Think they'll keep you in the force, no matter how poetic the justice?"

Gene stopped. He'd pushed the boundaries every time he needed to, every time he wanted to, more like. But this was beyond the pale. A helpless, crippled man in a hospital bed. A prisoner. "I've done worse," he snarled. "You have no idea the depths I've gone to, to get blaggers."

"Pretended to be one?"

"You fucking dare to insinuate that I did anything underhanded, and I will personally rip your balls off and stuff them down your lying throat!"

Carl's face crumpled. He curled, tendons popping in his neck, making a horrible coughing noise, and it took a ridiculously long and torturous moment before Gene realized he was laughing. The red rage flooded him and pushed him forward across the six feet of tiled floor, and the next thing he knew he was staring at the skin under Carl's jaw, where the blunt muzzle of his pistol made a depression pointing at the man's brain. Carl still laughed, an inhuman, strangled sound. His fingers wrapped themselves around Gene's wrist, over the iron muscle and bone, twisting but without strength or leverage. "Think about it, man," he gasped. "Where's your high ground now?"

Gene shoved the gun that much further into Carl's chin, wanting to see the flesh part, wanting to see the spray of blood and bone, the eruption of brains, but fuck no, that wasn't good enough. He wanted Reynolds to watch it all happening to himself. Wanted to shoot him in the bloody knee, or in the gut, give him a lingering death of pain and desperation. No, he wanted to break some bones, get him tied down and helpless, kick him in the gut, stamp on his broken fingers...

"Hhhuh," Gene's exhale sounded like a gut-punch. It was as if he had snapped back into himself, as if he had been watching the whole scene from above, an uninterested observer. Carl's head forced backward, his eyes half-closed against the strain, his hands clawed. The pistol, like an extension of Gene's own self, his knuckles as hard as steel and white on the grip. His thumb had crept up to rest against the cocking mechanism.

"You tricked me, Hunt. You played my game--a-and... you beat me. Isn't that--enough?"

Gene stared into Carl's cold eyes, grey as ash, grey as the shadows that had skulked around the corners of the warehouse while Gene hung for hours from his wrists. There was no pity there, no remorse or false hope of redemption. Reynolds was so thoroughly bad that nothing could reach him. "You didn't even care that I did for Mackie, did you?" he hissed.

An involuntary widening of pupils; Carl was surprised by that. "Care?" he choked out. "You killed my man. Course I cared."

"No." The idea had taken hold, it wouldn't leave him. "He wasn't even a person to you, just a--a belonging. Just a thing you owned. Like you thought you owned me."

"I did own you."

Gene shook his head, furious. "Didn't. I was working against you the whole time."

"You--did what I asked. I said jump, you jumped."

"Because I had to, to fool you."

"Was that really it, Henry? You punched Mackie because you had to? I think you did it for me. I think you did it to please me, because there was nothing you wanted more. I could read it in your eyes, man; I was the big dog and you responded to power."

"The hell I did!" Gene's knuckles whitened on the gun.

"You wanted to be my favorite. My pet."

"If that's it, why'd I ruin it for myself by shooting him? I'm an officer of the law, Reynolds. My first, my last, my only priority was nailing you. You think you had any hold over me, think again. I was always my own man." Gene had to close his eyes suddenly at the thought of late nights down the pub with Reynolds, the approving eyes. It wasn't--it didn't make any of it true, but it stung anyway. He had been swayed by Carl's favor, not to the point of betraying his purpose, but all the same.

"Doesn't matter," Carl whispered. "It's all buggered now, isn't it?" 

"You thought you owned me," Gene whispered back. His fingers had gone numb on the grip of the pistol.

"And you thought you could take me." Carl's eyes bored into Gene's with eerie intensity, icy with hatred. Suddenly he twisted in the bed, writhing away from the snout of the gun--his other hand came up fast like the strike of a viper. There was a flash of steel, and the slender blade of the butter knife buried itself in Gene's forearm with a shock like electricity and his fingers went limp on the pistol.

***  
Things couldn't continue like this.

Sam stopped for breath, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. For the first time in a long time, his muscles were no longer tight but relaxed. As he rested, he felt the dampness of the rain through his clothes. It mixed with his sweat and chilled him to the bone. He looked forwards. In the distance was Gene's house, the rain spitting on the doorstep and darkening the brickwork a depressing brown. For a moment, as Sam breathed fast shallow breaths, he thought he saw Gene at an upstairs window ... then there was nothing. The window was open, so it must have been the wind blowing a curtain. He sighed a deep sigh and looked away. A run had been what was needed to clear his mind, but, obviously, he was still carrying Gene around in his bloody head. The old Gene would've raised his eyebrows, looked down at him with that smug grin of his and made a crack about being unforgettable. Fuck, Sam missed him. He knew what Gene would make of it now--he'd think the worst of him--and he didn't particularly want to share the illusion. These days, Gene was on a short fuse, and Sam never knew when he might explode over something, whether large or small. And Sam would only end up sounding defensive. Lunchtime at the pub had been proof of that. He'd made a bloody awful job of it. He should have done nothing. Said nothing. Yeah, he'd keep it to himself.

Sam stood where he was, not moving except to rub his right knee and straighten up. Bit of a mess, wasn't it? He was driving Gene further away. In some ways, Gene was already gone. He started running again, his feet beating rhythmically on the tarmac. There was a strange comfort in the sound of his trainers hitting the ground and the answering pulse of his heart. He'd considered going back to the peace and quiet of his own flat. It would've been so easy. Safer. In the bedsit, he could let Gene go with both hands. Give him some time. That sense of letting go had surprised him even though he knew that he should walk away. He also knew that he wouldn't. Couldn't. It would simply be a palliative. There was a distance between them and it needed to be closed. They could go to bed and shag each other's brains out. That would sort them out, that. No, another quick fix. He wanted to put things right. 

Sam ran up the path, put his key into the lock, and let himself into the house, sensing immediately that no one was home. He headed for the fridge and guzzled orange juice straight from the pitcher. It struck him that the house was unnaturally quiet--a profound, visceral silence that he felt in his gut. He couldn't call Gene the best sort of company now but he'd gotten used to his presence even if Gene had shut him out.

He had been protecting Gene from Carl Reynolds, hadn't wanted him to be hurt again by the bastard. He'd been convinced that he was right--still believed it--that shielding Gene was for the best, and he'd gone to see the blagger on his own. It had been just the two of them; a reversal of roles. He'd let Gene down. It was the worst kind of betrayal. If he was doing anything at all then he would have to tell Gene everything. He shivered and ran a hand over his face.

Sam dialed Gene's office number. No answer. He wasn't answering his phone, was unable or unwilling to answer. It didn't matter. He wanted to talk to him in person any road. But he could hardly go over there sweating and wearing his running kit. Besides, he was cold and he needed to shower and change. He ran up the stairs to the bedroom, removed his clothes and trainers, then showered, turning his face to the spray. He took a clean white shirt from the wardrobe, the dark blue trousers. Sam dried himself with a towel and dressed, stuffing his shirt into his trousers. And, finally, black leather jacket.

Thirty minutes later, he was banging in through the doors of CID. The station was quiet, and only Leo was behind his desk, lighting a cigarette with his big hands. The others were probably all still on the piss. Sam knocked at Gene's office door, and when there was no answer, pushed it open and walked inside. He stood there, looking around. Then he sat down at the desk. Tried the drawers. He picked up a fat file folder, slid out its contents and examined them. He laid it aside. He leaned back in Gene's chair and scratched his head. 

“Just what I fucking needed,” he said to the empty office. He waited with growing impatience, then got up, walked round the desk, and headed for the CID room. He looked down at his own desk. He frowned and realised in the same instant that the files were disturbed, opened, their contents scattered across the desktop. Sam reached out for the topmost sheet and began to read. It was a detailed report on Carl Reynolds' hospitalisation. “Oh, shit!” Did Gene know about Reynolds, about Strangeways? 

Sam looked across the room to Leo. “Hey!” he called out. Leo looked up from his desk. “Tell me something. It's important. Was Gene at my desk?”

Leo took a long draw on the cigarette and studied Sam's face before he answered. “As it happens, he was,” he replied, a thin stream of smoke rising up into his great mane of grey hair.

Jesus Christ. I can't believe I'm hearing this. His stomach belly flopped into his bowels. Sam thought of the implications as he raced down the stairs to the ground level, breathing easily even as he felt his heart pound. He saw Phyllis in her uniform and standing at the front desk, her back to him, brown hair pulled away from her face and coiled loosely at the back of her head. “Gene,” Sam called, and the WPC turned round and looked at him. He ran towards her. “Where?” he asked, his breath coming harder. 

“He took off. He was in a hurry,” she replied. She leaned back against the wood worktop, with its smell of beeswax, her head held high. “Ten minutes back, maybe a bit more.” Her eyes narrowed. “You're both behaving damned oddly, if you ask me. What the hell's happening?”

“You have any idea where he is?” Sam countered.

“I left me Ouija board at home, Boss.” She looked thoughtful. “Have you lost him or something?” Her voice was serious with a strange mixture of softness and sweetness. 

Gene … On his way to Strangeways. And I've sent him there.

Sam shook his head. “No,” he murmured, his face tight and the tremor in his voice betraying the fact that he was fully wound.

Phyllis gazed directly into his eyes. Hers were blue and sharp. “In that case, I suppose you want to take a car,” she challenged, handing him a clipboard. “Find him, wherever he is. I trust you'll have the bloody sense to bring it back in one piece.”

Sam nodded his thanks and took it from her, signing out a car from the pool. He was so preoccupied that he barged out of the room without saying another word. The royal blue Triumph was sitting outside the building and he climbed inside. He pictured Gene in Reynolds' hospital room. Gene didn't know that he was coming. He'd be the last person that he was expecting. Might not want to see him. 

Sam started the engine and put his foot down on the accelerator pedal. In his haste to follow him, he nearly clipped a panda car. Gene wasn't a killer. But Sam had led him into it, hadn't he? 

***  
The Cortina was parked against the kerb, in front of the prison, the huge red brick massif of Strangeways, and the sight of it sent ice water through Sam's veins. "No, no, no," Sam repeated in a litany as he squealed to a stop and leapt out, rushing up the walk to the main door.

Before he reached the charge desk he drew a deep breath, tried to will himself calm, tried to force his voice into an even tone. "DI Tyler, CID. Has--has my DCI been here today?"

"Yes sir," the young man in prison uniform nodded as he checked Sam's Warrant card. "Interrogatin' that prisoner of yours. You'll be joining him?"

There seemed to be a howling blackness at the borders of Sam's vision. He clamped his hands to his temples, fighting it off. "Fuck. Yes," he bit off. "Yes, I'll be joining him."

The walk down the echoing hall was ridiculous. He could have been there in seconds, rather than walking behind the portly warden, agonizingly short steps and worrying what he would see when that door opened. And then they were there and the warden stepped back, gesturing Sam into the room, locking the door behind him without even bothering to look inside.

There was blood on the sheets. It was the first thing Sam noticed and then the only thing he could see; the lurid red streaks smeared on the white fabric, so central to his vision that it took him forever to notice that Carl was still breathing. Reynolds was clutching one hand in the other, breathing with an odd hitching gasp. His cold grey eyes opened and latched onto Sam's face.

"Well if it isn't the loyal Detective Inspector," he rasped. "Just in time to prevent manslaughter."

There was a choking noise to Sam's left, out of his line of sight. He stepped forward just far enough to see Gene with his back to the wall. He had a pistol in his off hand, his left, raised but not aimed. His right hung by his side, blood dripping from his fingers. He made another sound, a laugh or a sob. He had that look on his face, the "I'm gut-shot but too manly to tell you," the look he'd had when Harry Woolf went down. The expression that said he'd cry if he was able, if it was something that men did.

Bleeding hell. "Gene." He said it softly, hoping the tone would make an impression. 

Gene looked down at his own shaking hand, at the pistol skewed in his grip. "Fuck it, Sam," he slurred, "I can't--can't shoot him."

"You mean you won't. Don't have the balls," Carl whined. "Big man can't take the final step. Well maybe your DI here can finish the job for you." 

"You shut your gob," Sam snapped.

"Make me, you bastard. Come on, shut me up for good. I'm waiting for it!"

"I'll do it, you say another word!"

"Not a pair of balls between the two of you. You couldn't take me out and you can't make me talk. Christ, what do they make coppers out of up here? Soft little boys crying for their mum--"

Gene groaned like a tree in a strong wind, lifting the pistol in both hands.

"No," Sam said with sudden urgency. "Don't, Gene, you can't, you--" He put a hand on Gene's arm, intending to do what? Push him aside? Just make him stop, make him pull himself together, somehow get through to him and make him see how mad it all was. This had gone too far. There had to be a way through, keeping lives and careers intact. He pushed Gene back. 

The gun clattered to the floor and there was an echoing bang as it discharged.

"There. It'll all be fine. Just--"

Gene's fist slammed into the side of Sam's face with a force like a bulldozer. It was literally blinding; the room spun around him and he staggered back two steps, caught his heel on something and fell on his arse with a thud that rattled his teeth.

"Fuck!" He blinked back tears of pain, glaring up at Gene's suffused face. He looked different than he had a moment before--enraged rather than stunned, with the angry forward-thrust pout Sam knew so well. What the bleeding hell. "That was fucking uncalled for, you bastard!" 

"I didn't ask you to come here, Samantha! Stand off!" 

"God, you--you can't push me away like this, Gene!"

"You don't go, I'll bloody well kick you out." He took a menacing step forward.

No. Too much. Far too many indignities. Sam lunged up off the floor and caught Gene flat-footed with a hard shoulder to the belly, driving his weight into Gene's bulk with the long practice of a slight man in a physical occupation. Gene stumbled back a step and caught himself, and Sam followed, belly to belly in a mockery of Gene's usual intimidating manner.

"You--!" He snapped, and there seemed to be no word, no insult appropriate to the moment. He grabbed the striped tie, the very tie he had helped him put on that morning, and hauled him closer. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?! Coming here? Waving a gun around?" He could hear the strident note of rage in his own voice, the signal that he was very close to the breaking point.

Gene tossed him back, leaving a smeared bloody print on the front of his shirt. "Bollocks, Sam! What d'you think I came here for, if you can be bothered to use a few of those brain cells and a little of your Detective prowess! To bloody well kill this man, that's what! And if you'll kindly keep your lying, poncey little caretaker hands to yourself I'll go about doing that!"

"You--fuck it, Gene, you couldn't pull the trigger ten seconds ago! Why do you think you're able to now? And--speaking of using some of your vaunted detective abilities, how about reasoning out what your fate is once you've shot to death a paralyzed prisoner in custody?"

"God damn it, Sam! I'm not an idiot or a child!"

"Then stop acting like one!"

"You first, you bloody ingrate!"

The spray of spittle across Sam's face was really the last straw. He'd been screaming into Gene's red, angry face, infuriated by the very lack of rational response, and it was just too much. He aimed a roundhouse at Gene's nose, feeling a very gratifying crunch through the bursting pain in his own hand. 

Gene stumbled backward with an incoherent shout of rage and pain, and a furious pounding began on the locked door of the room.

"Oi!" rasped Carl. "You blokes are in for it now! Can't wait to see how this plays out, you bastards!"

Before Sam could reach the door, shaking his hand in pain, it opened with a crash and three burly wardens rushed in. Sam reached for his warrant card but one of them had him pressed up against the wall before he could get it out. 

"What the bloody hell are you two doing?" the warden snarled. "Thompson, is the prisoner all right?"

"Christ! Ah, it's not even--yes, he's fine. Lots of blood, but not his."

"Bloody hell, who then?"

And their eyes were drawn to Gene's wavering form as he slumped, first to his knees and then sideways, held up by the third prison warden.

***

"I'm fine! Leave off, you bugger, I'm fine! Ouch!" 

The prison medic, undeterred, grabbed Gene's wrist and held him as he continued a neat row of stitches on his forearm. "Lucky you didn't get an artery or a tendon, mate."

"And you're lucky I haven't knocked your teeth in. I told you I didn't need--"

"Not your choice, DCI Hunt. We phoned your Super. You're just lucky he's in a lenient mood today, and that I was on duty. This needed seeing to, and you could have been in gaol yourself."

"We told you--" Sam interrupted, but he was interrupted by a world-weary voice from the doorway; the arrival of the prison administrator, a stern-looking, powerfully-built man about a decade older than Gene.

"Ah, the persistent men of CID. How nice of you to drop by and see to the welfare of our patient." 

The medic grinned up at the stocky, middle-aged man in the doorway. "Administrator Bowen, just in time."

"The so-called patient almost did for my DCI," Sam snapped. "You let a known killer keep a knife on his person?"

This outburst turned the Administrator's attention from Gene's stubborn pout and bloody injuries, and brought it unfortunately to bear on Sam--but he was ready and willing to take it on himself. By some ruddy miracle they might actually get out of this one looking, if not like daisies, then at least not like a murderously insane DCI and his violent henchman. If he could dance through this interrogation, and keep Gene from throwing himself back into the fray.

"Garrett Bowen; I believe we met once before, Detective Tyler. No of course it is not our policy to allow knives for our prisoners. Cunning fellow, that. But can you tell me anything about why the two of you were in his room trying to kill each other?"

Sam clenched one hand defensively over the split knuckles on the other, shot a glance sideways at Gene's swollen nose. "It was an accident. We were trying to get the knife away from Reynolds."

"Without calling in a warden? Procedure must be followed, you know. I'll have to write this up."

"Do what you need to," Gene growled suddenly. "I put that man in here and I'll put him away for good, with your help or without it."

Bowen looked the sort who could see right through bluster like the front Gene was putting up. Or was it even a front? Sam couldn't tell, couldn't read his expression any more. The wall between them had grown too high; he felt helpless to guess what Gene had really intended. 

He cleared his throat. "DCI Hunt needed to ask the prisoner about a key point in our investigation, but there was new information that he hadn't received, so I followed as fast as I could to keep him informed of the full picture."

Bowen raised an eyebrow. Gene blinked, disconcerted. "Really? You make it sound so... standard procedure."

Sam gave a quick nod. "The only thing non-standard about this visit was the fact that I was late; we intended to drive together but I was on a call. And now, Administrator, I realize you have paperwork to file regarding this incident, but so do we as well. A wounding attack on one of our officers... bound to make the Superintendent sit up and take notice."

"And the rest of it?" He made a gesture toward Sam's face--the damage must be visible, then. The throb was ever more insistent, but he had hoped he could fake perfect health.

"It's not easy to disarm a man who's trying to stab you. DCI Hunt and I may have knocked in to each other."

"Well then, I would be very pleased to say goodbye to you two. It's best for my paperwork if you get out of my world and back to your own."

Sam nodded again curtly, striving to hide his vast sense of relief. Then again, the next obstacle he had to deal with was Gene himself, and if the last half hour was anything to go by it wasn't going to go smoothly.

***

The prison doors closed behind them with a thud. Gene didn't pause for a moment, just wiped another trickle of blood from his upper lip, cast a dubious look at the cloudy sky and stumped down the steps toward the Cortina. Sam watched him go. Just watched him, with an astounded disbelief as if he'd been rendered helpless by their abrupt ejection from the prison. This was really going to happen, then; Gene was going to get into the Cortina and drive away, and they'd be back to the unbearable agony of the past weeks. He wasn't pausing to talk.

Tears were prickling his eyes, the Cortina growing blurry and distorted as Gene opened the door and settled in with a groan. Already so distant.

"Oi!" Gene sounded hoarse. "You coming or what?"

Sam stared, then shook his head. "I've got a car here."

"Get in." The tone brooked no argument.

Getting in to the Cortina was like sliding into an old pair of jeans, unwashed for years. Or rather, an old pair of Gene's trousers, creased, stained with bacon grease and infused with cigarette smoke, so familiar that he never noticed how comforting they were. Gene revved the engine and peeled away from the kerb. Sam leaned his head back against the seat and breathed.

"Don't fall asleep."

"Wasn't going to," he snapped back, squeezing his eyes shut against the knot in his belly.

“We need to talk.”

“You're telling me.”

“I'm serious, Sam.”

“So am I, you wanker. What happened in there, Gene?”

“What the fuck do you want me to say? I wanted that bastard dead, 'course I bloody did. World's better off without him.” Blood dribbled over Gene's upper lip as he spoke, and he snorted.

“You can't take the law into your own hands!”

“I'd just found out that you were lying! Christ, it gave me a turn. I was shook up, wasn't I? Jumped in the car and drove straight there. I'd a right to know, you bloody sod!”

Sam sat, not moving. His face hurt like hell. If only Gene had let him speak, if only he had listened instead of throwing a punch. Had he heard one thing of what he'd said? Such bloody rage. Sam turned his head and met Gene's green eyes. For a moment, he saw Gene the way he had been before the undercover operation. But that had been then, before everything fell apart. He was a changed man; had scars deep inside that would take a long time to heal. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. And Sam had his own problems. He hadn't been prepared for Gene's withdrawal, for his capture to be always there, always in the way, driving a wedge between them. Truth be told, it was that loss that hit him the hardest. Reynolds had taken what mattered most to him. It was all Sam could do to cope with the pressure and the guilt eating away at him every time he looked at Gene. Now, Gene had beaten him up. Sam had struck back--what else could he have done?--and it had felt good at the time, but he wondered if Gene could see his self-disgust. Sam felt a lump in his throat, swallowed. Blinked. Felt a tear run down his cheek like the lazy trail of Gene's fingers.

"Oh, bloody hell. What are you crying for?" Gene said.

Sam looked down at his hand. He'd clenched his fist. The knuckles were out of focus, the bruises blurred. He sucked on them and tasted blood. Then he let his hand relax, sat up straight and answered flatly, “It's nothing.”

It was quiet for a few seconds. “I see.”

Sam heard the anger in Gene's voice, making it short, tight. He listened to the click of a lighter, Gene's intake of breath as he sucked on a cigarette. He waited whilst he smoked, gazed past him out of the window. It was still daylight, but the light was fading. He eyed Gene. Gene cleared his throat, was about to say something. Changed his mind. He flicked his cigarette out on to the tarmac outside, started the ignition and stomped down on the accelerator pedal, his concentration on the road.

Shit. He'd let Gene down. Again. Sam felt a tightness in his chest, the familiar tingling in his arms and fingers. It made him want to flee. He took some deep breaths to calm himself, blinked and felt more tears appear. He sniffed.

“You all right?” Gene asked suddenly. “Want a hankie?” He floored the accelerator before the amber traffic light turned red.

Sam could feel his back press into the seat. “I don't want your hankie!” he snapped. He turned his head abruptly to the left, his hand propping up his chin, and found a distant street sign to stare at.

“Everything went black,” Gene said softly. “I couldn't help meself. For fuck's sake, Sam, I'm sorry.” 

Sam glanced at him, without saying a word. He gazed at Gene's hand on the driving wheel. He wanted to reach over and place his own hand over the bandage on Gene's forearm. But he didn't. Gene turned the wheel to the right and pulled into a car park. Sam looked at the grass beyond the tarmac in surprise. “I thought we were going home?”

“Need to make a stop here first. Get us sorted,” Gene replied. He put the car in park and turned off the engine. "Carl Reynolds. Here's your chance. Why did you wait?” He reached in his pocket, took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his chin. 

What did he expect Sam to tell him? That Gene wasn't himself? That Sam didn't want to upset him? That he didn't want Gene to worry? There were so many reasons. Gene's dependence on alcohol and painkillers. Nightmares. Sleepless nights. Any one of them, all of them. 

“Don't piss me about. Or do I have to put my size thirteen shoe up your arse so you'll say summat!"

Sam rubbed his tailbone and winced. "It feels like you already did, you Bastard," he muttered.

Gene laughed thinly, and he turned away, staring out of the windscreen. Sam couldn't see the expression on his face. “You told the lie. Way I see it, my conscience is clear. What about yours?” 

“I withheld the truth. It's not the same thing,” Sam said. “We both know that I had to.”

“You bloody had to,” Gene replied, his tone sceptical. “So it wasn't all tea and sympathy after I came back. You're quite the little headshrinker. Just who do you think I am, Sam?”

“I don't know. Not any more.”

“Yes, you do.” Gene sighed. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Are you hard of hearing? Get out of the bleeding car.”

Sam leaned forward, with his hands on the dashboard. The tingling started up again. He didn't want to leave, but he was too knackered to argue. He took one last look at Gene. It was clear that Gene wasn't going to take no for an answer. Sam nodded and made his way out of the car reluctantly. He buttoned his jacket up to his neck against the chill. He heard the slam of a door and the click of heels crossing the car park. The familiar footsteps came closer and Sam smelled the spicy scent that told him Gene was standing behind him. If Gene was going to hit him again, it would be now. He went rigid, turned round to face Gene, even though he knew that it was too late, and it was born out by the tenseness of Gene's clenched jaw. “Go for it, Gene,” he said, raising his arms and making ready.

A muscle in Gene's cheek twitched; it was very nearly a smile but his shoulders slumped, and it disappeared. His eyes were sad.

Sam dropped his arms. “Gene?” 

“Thinking … Bit awkward, this …"

"Go on."

"Reckon maybe it's time that we called it quits. Right now.”

Sam closed his eyes. Opened them again. “Jesus, you don't mean that.” Had it really come to this?

“Whatever there was, it's gone wrong. Just wrong enough. Best leave it here.” 

Sam shook his head. “No. Not like this.” 

Gene pursed his lips. “I'm telling you, not asking you. Think about it. You know I'm right.”

“I said no. This is bullshit.” 

“The thing is, I don't know if I can trust you, Sam," he said, his voice bitter. "Better to get on with it.” 

Get on with it? Sam hated him. No, he hated himself. No, neither. He swallowed his hurt and anger, keeping it inside, and it slid to his belly, laying there like a stone. “Fine, okay,” he said finally. “Just bloody fine. You'll do what you want any road.”

Then Gene was the one to walk away, brushing past Sam's shoulder and down the path, heading for the pond, leaving Sam staring at his back. He found a bench facing the water, and sat down. 

Sam hesitated. “Shit,” he mumbled to himself. He should leave now. But he couldn't leave. Not without Gene. Leaving meant finding himself back at his own flat, turning the key, locking himself inside. Trapped, like Gene. “I did it because I love you, you daft Bastard!” he called. He moved quickly down the hill, his footsteps soft on the grass. Gene was just sitting, his hands clasped between his legs. A pair of ducks waddled down the slope, towards the pond. Sam watched them then sank on to the bench next to him. The breeze blew Gene's hair, and Sam reached out slowly to touch the blond strands just turning grey at the temples, and gently brushed them back behind Gene's ear. Gene didn't flinch when he touched him, didn't say anything at first, simply looked down at the ducks.

“I've been here before,” Gene said. “A pretty sight, eh? I could see that it was, but I couldn't feel it. Summat was missing; I'd been bottling up for so long ...”

“I never mean to hurt you, Gene,” Sam said. “Not you. It happens to be the truth. Please talk to me. Will you talk to me?”

Gene took a deep breath and blew it back out. “I can't remember much about Barclays. It comes back to me in bursts--but I can't get hold of it.” He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated, letting loose the strands. “The pain in my bloody head, the rush to the warehouse. I knew the streets, had driven round them all my life, but me brain was muddled and they were a right jumble. I remember the sun on my face as they dragged me from the van and the echo of the door clanging shut after they'd taken me inside. It was black as pitch, cold, stank worse than the mortuary on a good day, mind. I could hear the rats scurrying under metal. Gave me the shivers. Fitting place to buy the farm, eh?”

“Jesus,” Sam said. It came out strangled. 

Gene leaned forward and looked around the park, avoiding Sam’s eyes. The sun had nearly set and the water was dark blue. “The ropes were too tight, cut into my wrists like barbed wire, and my feet barely touched the floor. They took turns, beating me with their fists, but I didn’t break; told them to ‘piss off’ even. Then they left me alone.”  
Neither of them had spoken their real thoughts for weeks. They'd stored them up, like they were waiting for a night of whisky to lay them bare, a time that had never come. It was a wonder that it had come now, here. Sam put his hands in his pockets and listened.

“Carl was a decent bloke--for a Southern tosser. I knew his type; we understood each other. No confusion between us. That's how it was. He was smart, always one step ahead, but I knew that I could get him to trust me, to accept me. Convinced him I had a criminal mind. Until I killed Mackie, that is.”

“It's odd, the shape a life can take, yeah?” Sam said. “You might be loved but grow up bad, or abandoned and still be lily white.”

“Blimey. You have been taking lessons from Cartwright. That's all well and good ...” Sam waited for the but, and Gene turned towards him with an irritated sigh. “Look, I'm coming level with you. Haven't wanted to have a heart-to-heart for weeks, so if you're finished? ...” The words fell heavily between them. Handle him carefully, Sam. Gene picked up a rock sitting on the ground and examined its edges. “Carl wanted to know who I really was, what I'd told. Called me a Judas. I was being punished; I was waiting for him to blow a fuse but he was all words, just bloody words. I hung there in agony while the rats were nibbling the warm blood on my ruddy toes.” Then Sam saw the rock flying through the air. It fell into the pond with a plop followed by several scolding quacks. 

“Every night it comes back to me, asleep or awake. I can't get it out of me mind. I knew what Carl was doing--he was biding his time. Watching me as I took the blows. I felt like screaming, but I knew that if I started I might never stop. I stood my ground, even when Geordie picked up a pipe and swung it at my chest.”

Sam heard something. A splashing sound. He didn't know if it was real or not, but he heard it all the same. The sound of blood spattering on the dirty warehouse floor. He made a low moan. A duck up-ended to feed on the surface of the water. “I wasn't there for you,” he said, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. “I should have been, but I wasn't. If we'd been together, it might never have happened.”

“Ha! Just who else do you think I thought about, Sam?” Gene replied. “It was a desperate remedy, about as desperate as they come,” he admitted. “But it was good enough. Do you understand?” 

Sam blinked. “I understand.” His tailbone was really starting to bother him. He should get up and walk but he settled for shifting his weight a little.

“All right then. Good. I'm going for a walk--and so are you if you want to talk to me,” Gene said, as if he'd read Sam's thoughts.

Sam had to smile, but it hurt to smile, and his face twisted in pain. He got to his feet, joining Gene on the path. As they walked shoulder-to-shoulder, Gene adjusted the sleeves of his coat. “The only light came from the windows high above me head. I didn't know where it had come from, maybe the moon or some flickering street lamp,” Gene continued, “but it was preferable to the bloody floodlights they'd brought in. Blinding. Hurt my eyes. I saw a sodding rat watching me. Waiting to feed, I figured, since I smelled like last week's leavings. I hoped to Christ it would wait until I'd died.” 

Sam put a hand on Gene's arm and felt him trembling beneath the camel-coloured wool.

Gene shook him off. “Yes, well … I couldn't afford to let something like that rattle me. The bastards had cut me down, tied me to a chair. Carl seemed torn up, exhausted. I tried to keep my gob shut and my ears open hoping that he might let something slip. But he'd had a bellyful; I could see it in his eyes. And he was as sharp as the knife he was carrying.  
Didn't miss a trick. If I wasn't his man, then whose was I?” 

“Did you say anything?”

“No. Yes. I think I told him he was as ugly as a donkey's arse.”

“You're bloody incredible, you are.”

Gene shrugged. His eyes were amused then they smoldered, turning it to ash. “I was pushing my luck--I had to be humiliated. That's what Carl wanted for me. Wanted me vulnerable; deprived of dignity, of the control of my own life.” Together, they reached the level ground of the car park. Sam heard the sounds of traffic. Gene turned and looked at the pond. Turned back. “I couldn't move; had to take the pain of the beatings, the heat of the fag ends. Then the door burst open and I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. Fucking Michael Kenney. It was a real shock. When he caught sight of me, I think he was just as startled as I was--” 

“You put him away awhile back.”

“Yeah, I've had to do with him. He's always up to his neck in summat.” They walked across the tarmac to the car. Gene paused. His eyes rested steadily on Sam. “Suppose you want to hear the rest of the story.” Sam swallowed nervously. He knew what was coming. 

“I could hear distant voices, felt the blade of the knife touching my neck--Christ, it was cold, and I could've used a holiday in Spain or, at least, a flask of whisky--and Carl had the look of a man ready to use it. I wanted to say he'll come, Sam will but he pressed the knife into my skin and, for a moment, it was wet and warm." Gene was quiet as if he was lost in the thought. "There was a bang, and I thought I was dead, but I heard shouting and you can't bloody hear when you're dead, can you, Sam?” he finished softly. There were tears in Gene's eyes, but he didn't cry. 

“Fucking, bloody bastard,” Sam muttered, mostly to himself. Reynolds. Or himself. He felt hot tears dribble down his face. 

Gene lifted his palm, his fingers pointing up. "Enough, eh? Don't make a fuss about it." He coughed. "Can we drop the bollocking girly let me share your feelings bollocks, Sam? It was good to talk, but I'm a man. I got hurt, and I got better. End of. You want to make me feel better, you find some evidence against Reynolds that we can use to put him away for life. I'd like to see his skinny arse still mouldering away in prison on the day I retire from the force.”

The tension grew between them again, as tangible as the bandage drawn tightly round Gene's forearm. They were on the defensive, both of them. Gene had his chin up and a stubborn look on his face; he may have been putting a bold front on it but it was manifested in his speech and posture. Sam was intent, ready for a chink no matter how narrow.  
In the silence that followed, he bit back an automatic retort; the comments about all the ways in which Gene had been more than hurt, the ways in which he hadn't gotten better. At least they had talked. And it should have been no surprise to him that "talking" began with a fist; he probed the tender area around his left eye and sucked in a breath.

“The offer of a hankie still stands.” 

Sam ignored him and ran his fingers down his face, clearing it. 

Gene frowned. “Hold on, why was he there? He'd nothing to do with Barclays, nothing at all.”

“Sorry?”

“Talking to meself.” Gene was obviously troubled. “Michael Kenney.”

“Did he have a connection to the blaggers?”

Gene thought for a moment. “No idea. Maybe. I'll ask him, shall I? Rattle his chain a bit." He rubbed his stomach. "But not right now. Fuck, I'm hungry. Is it too late for a curry?”

Sam glanced at his watch. “If we hurry, we can stop at the Taj Mahal for something to eat on the way back. Care to go?”

“Perfect. What are we waiting for?”

“Gene?”

“What?”

“Are we all right?”

Gene opened his door. He spread his hands on the car's roof, giving it several impatient taps. "Come on, don't stand there, Sam. Get in. Let's go for that meal.” 

They got in. Rain started to fall and bounced off the car's windscreen. 

“One thing," Gene added. "Just don't expect that I'm paying,” he said.


End file.
